Fool's Gold
by morallygreydesi
Summary: /"Choose." "No, please don't make me." "Have it your way." "NO!" The gunshots echoed louder than my screaming. And, at once, everything went to hell./ Catherine's dead for good. And, finally, it feels like Cammie has moved on from being a target to being an agent. Then why does it feel like she's still running? - Sequel to Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice.
1. chapter one

**And, tada! Here we have a sequel to Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice. If you haven't read it, then I recommend you do. Even though the first chapter isn't confusing to read out of context, there will be more events and characters coming up from the previous series! Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice was something I wrote to get out a plot idea I'd had in my head ever since I read the GG series. It was short, and I finished it within a month. Fool's Gold is going to be a little different. It's going to be more character driven, and will deal with different issues, now that our characters are a lot more grown up. I'll also be exploring slightly more descriptive scenes, not just in terms of sexual situations, but also in terms of action, torture, and the fun spy stuff. So, chapter ratings will vary from T to M, with appropriate warnings when necessary. **

**I also want to add how I will also continue posting deleted scenes for Fool Me Once, so if you're not following that story, then go ahead because I'll be doing that at the same time as updating chapters here.**

 **I would also like to point out that I will _not_ be updating as frequently as I did with Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice... _however,_ I will not leave with work WIP. So even if updates are further apart, I very much intend on finishing this story because I have a pretty good idea of the plot and how I want to see it progress. But, it'll be a lot longer than Fool Me Once was. **

**Anyhow, with that out of the way, let's proceed to chapter one.**

 **Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Ally Carter. I don't own copyrights to canon Gallagher Girls series material and only own creative and intellectual property.**

 **Chapter Rating: T**

* * *

 **Fool's Gold**

 **Chapter One  
**

I _promise_ you – and these are words not spoken lightly – that there is no better feeling in the world than finding an inviting bed after a long day. This is coming from someone who has been tortured, hunted, and nearly _died_ multiple times. There is _no_ better feeling. So, naturally, when I fumbled my way through the door, routinely double checked the locks, tried to remain half-awake through a shower, and finally lay down on my bed – I was out in a matter of minutes.

Perhaps it would be easier to explain the source of this exhaustion if I were to throw in some context. As a fit, twenty-five year old bartender-slash-waitress-by-day-government-agent-by-night who spent most of her time on her feet, you would think I'd have better stamina. But, let it be said, that majority of my time when I wasn't cleaning tables and/or fighting three guys at once, I was trying to catch up on some shut-eye. After all, when one didn't get the right amount of recuperation, one also tended to burn out.

So, when I finally had a weekend to myself, I took full advantage. Sure, it was a bit of a damper that I didn't have Zach by my side yet, but that was one of the few things we'd had to get used to when we moved in together. Being a spy in a relationship with a spy meant that there were days when he sat in the office of the architectural firm he worked at, pretending to be the good designer that he surprisingly was, while I probably ran through sewers in New Delhi. And then, there were days like today, when he zip-lined (probably) between skyscrapers in Paris (I'm assuming – it's all very classified until it's all mission accomplished and paper work filed), while the highlight of my night was that nobody puked all over my work space. Like I said – there was no better feeling than crashing.

That is probably why I barely registered the familiar hum of the burglar alarms being turned on, even though I'd _explicitly_ left them turned off for when he returned. It's why I didn't shift, even once, when a body quietly moved through the halls, dropping a bag on the inside of my bedroom door. And it's why I smiled lazily, instead of jumped, when I heard the shower turn on and finally opened my eyes to see the sliver of light under the bathroom door. Only Zach would kick some ass, fly halfway around the world in a matter of twenty-four hours, and still have the strength to take a shower before getting into bed. Sometimes, living with a neat-freak was a pain. But sometimes, it was worth it.

I finally turned under the covers, my joints popping deliciously, as he turned off the bathroom light and slipped under the sheets. He smelled like peppermint, and heaven, and _Zach_. I smiled in my half-awake state, letting him pull me closer.

"You're back," I whispered, my voice scratchy.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered back, kissing my forehead when I put my head on his chest, finding comfort in the steady sound of his heartbeat.

"What time is it?"

"Four in the morning. Sleep."

"I missed you," I whined under my breath, already feeling myself losing consciousness.

"I missed you more," were the last words I heard before I fell asleep, again. As much as I wanted to stay awake and welcome him properly, I was just too tired.

* * *

" _You're very tired, aren't you, Cammie?"_

" _Yes."_

" _That's okay."_

 _It was easy. All I had to do was jump. I looked down at the ground below me, through the rain, ignoring the chill of the ice under my feet. But the grass looked so inviting, so warm. It was like a magic trick – like a circus. I laughed._

 _In the distance, the tail lights vanished, and I looked up, squinting at the sun. The rays reflected off the ice and my eyes closed, my feet stepping off the ledge, and into oblivion._

* * *

I shot up, my hands flying to my chest where my heart was racing. The early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds and I squinted, turning away harshly. I was alive. I was okay. I hadn't died.

A warm hand touched my waist and I jumped violently, nearly tumbling out of bed.

"Hey. Hey, it's me, Cam," the owner of the hand said, tugging me closer. I fell back into the sheets, burying my face in his chest, breathing deeply.

"I'm s-sorry," I finally said, looking up at Zach. His eyes widened and he shook his head, kissing my forehead. My eyes closed, and he kissed the lids too, pressing soft kisses all over my face.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

"I woke you up," I insisted, trying to blink away the images.

"Not really," he said, and I opened my eyes and propped my head on his chest, noticing the lack of sleepiness in his eyes and the lit up Kindle on the nightstand. I raised a curious eyebrow.

"Slept on the plane. Jetlag," he said, by way of explanation. Then he pulled me closer, wrapping me up in a tight hug as if he could protect me from the nightmares. I didn't really blame him for trying. There were enough nights when I had to hold him and rock him back to sleep when he woke up gasping for air.

I guess I should've mentioned that, too.

Even though sleep is the absolute best, it can be the absolute worst, too.

"Was it the attic again?" he whispered gently, not wanting to push me, but wanting an idea of what words to not mention around me for the rest of the day. The attic. That was my mind's favorite memory to throw at me – the room I'd been tortured in during that fateful summer. Of course, in the years since, I'd had tons of more trysts with death and pain. But my mind always reverted to the nightmares of the teenager who'd been on the run; the innocent girl who had died in the hands of the Circle.

I shook my head.

"No. It was the balcony," I replied, not meeting his eye. The balcony. My mind's second favorite scab to pick at. It wasn't so much the memory of feeling at peace with the idea of falling to my death, as it had to do with the humiliation, and feeling of violation, at being mind-controlled and forced into the situation. The first few times Zach had woken me up from it, I'd barely been able to look him in the eye. But now, it was easier, knowing that he wasn't going to judge me for it.

He tightened his arms, and the feel of him around me, and the faded smell of his soap enveloping me was the best comforter ever. He didn't say anything, and I imagine he was reliving it himself.

I'd once asked him to talk to me about it, to hear his version of events during that messy year. At first – the summer before Georgetown and when we'd first moved to New York - it had been difficult for him to articulate how he'd felt. He'd chosen to simply narrate events of how he found Bex, how the Baxters took him in, Greece, Budapest. Then he'd moved onto the more difficult narrations – him running away, him trying to find me, him trying to find Catherine, him having to come back after failing. But then, when he'd had no more stories to tell, he'd told me the stories of how terrified he'd been when he was awake, and the terrors that met him when he slept. In the dark of the night, he told me how Macey had found him that night, worried after I hadn't returned from my appointment with Dr. Steve, and how they'd found my note in his office. Then he told me how his heart had stopped when he heard Liz's screams for help and had reached just in time to watch me pitch myself off the fifth floor.

And then, for the first time since I'd met him, he'd held me in the quiet of the sunrise and cried. We'd wept together, letting ourselves fall apart amidst the comfort of our first home, as the sunlight hit the bare walls.

Now, six years later, the sunlight hit pale yellow walls, glinting off the photos of us, our family, and our friends. I watched it, sighing deeply, and then let myself rise up and out of bed. Immediately, the chill hit me. Although the thermostat kept the apartment warm, the bed was warmer. I welcomed it, letting it wake me up completely. Zach simply propped himself up on his elbow, watching me take a few gulps from the water bottle on my nightstand. Beside it, the light on my phone indicated unread notifications.

I picked it up and walked out of the room, hearing him get out of bed and follow me. Turning on the coffee machine in the kitchen, I sat on the bar stool while he sat across from me, his eyes glued to the Kindle, again.

"What are you reading?" I asked, while going through notifications. A text from my daytime boss wishing me a good weekend, a text from Abby wishing me a good weekend on behalf of Townsend (my _other_ boss), two texts from Liz confirming our lunch date. There were a couple of emails I ignored, none catching my eye.

"Hmm…just let me finish this chapter," Zach said, flipping a page on the screen in front of him. "Then I'll make breakfast."

"Let me," I insisted, feeling bad for waking up so suddenly, even though I knew he didn't hold it against me.

"No, really," he laughed, and I pouted. Okay, so he was a much more gifted cook than I was. It's not like I was _hopeless_ in the kitchen. I could make a digestible pancake or two. Even scramble some eggs. If it was a decent night, I could even make some good pasta. But when it came down to which meal was tastier, he won the competition. It took him a few seconds to finish reading whatever chapter he was reading now, before he turned the device off and moved to the fridge.

"Bacon and sunny side up?" he asked, grabbing the carton of eggs.

"Yes, please," I smiled, joining him and pouring myself a coffee. I would've hopped up on the counter beside him to watch him cook – and he would have let me too; anything to make me comfortable on a morning that started out so shaky. But I knew how it would secretly get to him that I was sitting on a space meant to prepare food. Instead, I sat on the closest stool to him and tucked my feet under me, content with my coffee.

"How was Paris? Or – was it Paris?" I asked, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug.

"Piece of cake," he snorted, cracking an egg into the greased skillet. "It's almost like they _want_ to give me information. And then they _think_ they can win a losing fight by pulling guns. Amateur."

I smiled at his confidence, glad that his mission had been a success. Maybe that's why he wasn't as exhausted. Still, I let my eyes linger on whatever skin I could see around the thin white t-shirt and grey boxers. They narrowed on some bruises bubbling on his right calf, and a scrape or two across his left forearm. I noticed a smaller scrape at the back of his neck, and remembered the hint of a bruise on his forehead earlier. But what caught my eye was a dark line on his back, glinting through the shirt. As if cowering under my glare, a bubble of blood seeped into the material.

Immediately, I stood up, abandoning the coffee on the island. He turned around, hearing the scrape of the stool I'd left.

"Wha – _hey,_ " he complained as I turned him around and lifted up the shirt. "Handling hot utensils here."

"Zach," I snapped. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing, Gallagher Girl," he sighed, putting the egg on a plate, and tossing in a few strips of bacon, as if he was used to my constant scrutiny.

I ignored it, bending down till I was at eye level with the cut. It slashed across his back, but it wasn't as deep as I'd feared. Of course, I was comforted knowing that he'd had to go through a mandatory checkup before being debriefed – like all agents did – and would've received appropriate medical attention. This one didn't even need stitches. I gently touched the spot where the bubble of blood had made itself known, and he hissed under his breath when I made contact. Wiping it away, I watched as no more blood sprang up. I let the shirt slide back down and straightened up as he turned around again.

"See? I told you it's nothing," he said, putting an arm around my waist while his other hand wielded a spatula.

"Doesn't mean I can't worry," I replied as he pulled me closer, putting my arms around him and standing on my tip toes to kiss his neck. He turned his head and intercepted it with his lips. I hummed in delight, letting him pull me tighter against him, his lips moving against mine as if he'd been away forever. I suppose, in my world I'd only gone a day without him. In his world, he'd been in another country and fighting some drug lord, and wanted to be reminded of his simpler life back home. I let him kiss me for a few more minutes before pulling away and breathing deeply. He turned back to the breakfast, a slight flush across his neck. I grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his chest. He returned it by letting his hand slide down lower and playfully smacking my ass.

My only response was to steal a strip of still-hot bacon, laughing as he complained about table manners.

* * *

"Must you leave?" he whined, a few hours later, watching me run around the room. The breakfast had been heavenly, and we'd snuggled up under a blanket later, watching the episodes of _Quantico_ that he'd recorded the previous weekend while I'd been in Beijing. That, of course, had led to a debate about the authenticity of the crime shows we watched. He strongly believed in artistic licensing, citing examples from books he'd read. I, on the other hand, simply found it boring when something seemed unlikely to happen. Naturally, the heated debate had turned into heated making out, which found its way to our bed for heated sex. By the time my alarm chimed at noon, neither of us could move from the twisted sheets we lay on.

Now, I was scrambling, because I was supposed to meet Liz for lunch, in five minutes. I hopped from one foot to the other while trying to simultaneously zip up boots and put on some lip balm. Not having the time to do anything with my hair, I simply tossed it into a bun and grabbed my jacket. Zach groaned as he sat up in bed. I eyed the slightly red marks on his neck and chest, courtesy of my nails, and was sorely tempted to just jump back into bed. But, I hadn't met Liz in nearly four months and we'd been planning this lunch for weeks. Or rather, _she_ had, while I simply nodded, too excited to meet her.

"Say hello to her from me," Zach finally said, when I reached down to give him a quick kiss goodbye.

"Will do," I replied, grabbing my keys and purse.

"And tell her to say hello to Jonas from me, too!" he hollered as I walked out of the room. I made an affirmative noise as I breezed through the apartment, and shut the door behind me.

As I checked my wallet to make an inventory of the cash situation, I thanked my lucky stars that Liz had decided on an outdoor lunch in Central Park. I'd told her about an amazing falafel stand near one of the many gates to the Park, and it was only a few blocks down from our apartment building. As I quickly walked in the right direction, I unzipped my jacket. The fall chill was evident in the air, but the sun was shining bright, and I decided to make the most of it. Of course, I'd already known it would be a warm day, since Liz had planned an outdoor lunch _after_ checking up all sorts of weather prediction algorithms.

"Cammie!" I heard her squeal in delight, as soon as she spotted me. I grinned and threw my arms around her, hearing her laugh as I nearly lifted her off the ground.

"I missed you," I smiled, as soon as I pulled away. "Look at you! You're so pale! You are _not_ getting enough sun in Moscow!"

She laughed again, shrugging. After she'd finished her research work in California, Liz had been referred to another research facility in Moscow, by way of one Jonas Anderson. A few months after Liz had moved, he'd moved there too, wrapping up his work in Tokyo. They'd spent the past four years there, working on some spy technology or other, under grants from the Russian government. Of course, that was just a cover, while they also ran intel for some of the deep cover American spies in the country. Currently, Liz was corresponding with a research facility at Columbia University, and her first step had been to come see me.

"Zach sends his greetings for you, and Jonas," I added. She beamed, but I'd known her for more than ten years. And, also, I was a spy. It wasn't difficult to notice the way her smile faltered by a minute degree, and her eyes tightened at the mention of her boyfriend. I narrowed my eyes at her, but decided to save the questioning until after we were fed. Ordering two falafels for each of us, and two cans of Coke Zero, we walked through the park arm-in-arm until we found a bench for us to sit on.

"So," I started, after I'd scarfed down the first falafel. She raised her eyebrows curiously, mid bite.

"Don't act like I didn't notice your face when I mentioned Jonas," I said. She made a face, turning a little red, taking her own sweet time to chew and delay the inevitable.

"Liz…" I said in a warning tone.

"What?" she asked, after taking a sip of soda to wash down the food. "It's nothing. We _may_ have had an argument before I left for New York. We've actually been having a lot of those."

The way she added the fact in a morose voice had me frowning. Her and Jonas arguing? That was something I found difficult to believe. Sure, we'd never actually _seen_ much of their relationship with our eyes, but _arguing_ was something that fit more with Grant and Bex – who argued a _lot._ How he'd gotten her to say yes to a marriage proposal was beyond any of our sensibilities. Even Zach and I argued frequently enough, both of us too stubborn for our own good. But from what I'd seen of Liz and Jonas, they were cute and quiet and adorable. I couldn't imagine them _fighting._ Especially frequently.

"Argument about what?" I asked.

"It's _nothing_ ," she insisted.

"It's _something_ if it's bothering you. And if it bothers you, it bothers me. So, spill," I said. "Or I'll call Macey."

"Okay," she said, crushing the falafel wrapper and tossing it in the trash. If anyone could get it out of her, it was Macey and Bex – the former with incessant questioning, and the latter with bodily threats to Jonas. Neither seemed like things Liz wanted.

"You know how this Moscow thing was only supposed to be for two years, right?" she started, and I nodded in encouragement. "Well, after the two-year contract finished, Jonas and I decided that we really liked Moscow. We liked being away from all the drama and the danger, and the constant worrying. Jonas is like me – as in, we don't come from a family of spies. And while that's awesome in a _lot_ of ways, it's also really tiring. I mean, I can't even begin to explain how angry Ellie was when I barely made it to her high school graduation. But it was nice, you know? It was like our own world."

"I'm sensing a _but_ –"

"But," Liz sighed, giving me a sad look. "I miss home. I miss America. Jonas doesn't. I want to move back here, but he wants to stay there because he's been looking into more career prospects within Russia – or, at least, Asia. He doesn't wanna come back here, and I don't wanna stay there anymore. Not for the rest of my life, anyway. And – and I think if we don't come to a compromise soon, we're going to break up."

She sounded so forlorn that I immediately put my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. The protective, best friend in me cursed Jonas for not understanding Liz's needs. But, from the point of view of someone in a relationship, I knew, logically, his needs were as important as hers. I'd been lucky Zach wanted to settle in New York; just as Bex had been lucky when Grant started working in the CIA foreign alliances department, allowing him to settle in London. Macey didn't have any such problems, since none of her boyfriends so far had been serious enough for her to worry about settling. But Liz had this real problem in front of her.

"Liz, I'm sorry," I said, pulling back from the hug. "I can't even imagine how difficult it must be."

"What do I do, Cammie?" she asked, tucking back a lock of bright blonde hair.

"You know me," I cringed. "I suck at boyfriend advice."

"You know who would know?" she asked.

"Macey," we said at once. Liz smiled sadly, pulling out her tablet and opening her video chat app. She lit up when she noticed Macey was online. Immediately, she hit the call button and a few seconds later, Macey's face appeared on the screen.

"Hi!" Macey grinned, and then her grin widened when she noticed me in the corner of the screen.

"Cammie! Ugh, you lucky girls. I can't believe you're together right now," she complained, wrinkling her nose. I noticed that her diamond stud had been replaced with a smaller, subtler silver one.

Liz opened her mouth to explain the reason we'd called, but Macey held up a finger.

"Hold on. I'm calling Bex – Hey! Bex! Come online!" she spoke into her phone, and then cut the call. We waited patiently for a few more seconds, before the screen split into two and Bex's face took up the other side of the chat. The lighting around her reminded us how she was in a completely different time zone, already into evening.

"Can we take a moment to appreciate how all of us happen to be free right now?" Bex said.

"Okay, but not too many moments. Sparrow is almost done with lunch, and then she wants to go to the mall," Macey said, speaking of the President's daughter, Charlotte, in code words.

"What's up? Liz, you look like your cat died," Bex said, frowning.

"Heisenberg is just fine, thank you," Liz said, rolling her eyes, before she narrated the exact dilemma she'd narrated to me. As expected, Bex's initial reaction was to hunt down Jonas and blackmail him. This was followed not only by Liz telling her to back off, but also a confused and slightly horrified Grant in the background, who'd overheard the threat towards his best friend. Macey merely frowned, before finally shushing all of us.

"Okay, honestly, Liz? It's a catch-22. If you think your relationship is worth the sacrifice, then you've got to make the effort to make the move with him. Maybe the global opportunity will be good for you, you know?"

Liz opened her mouth to protest, but Macey continued.

" _But,_ if you _need_ to move back here and aren't willing to sacrifice, then you have to come back. It's your life, and it's your career. The same goes for him. He has to choose what's important to him. And if your needs don't match – then, I'm sorry, Bookworm. But you can't be with someone who holds you back; and you can't hold him back either."

Liz nodded, as if she'd known this all along. I put an arm around her to comfort her, and she leaned her head onto my shoulder. We stayed that way for a few more minutes before Macey apologized and said she had to leave – not before she reminded Liz that no matter her decision, she'd always have us by her side. Bex reiterated the sentiment with slightly more vigor and passion, and then disconnected after Grant kept interrupting her to find out what was happening with Jonas. Liz turned off the tablet and put it back in her bag. We both remained silent, watching the sunlight slowly hide behind the grey clouds that rolled in.

"What?" Liz looked up, horrified. "There's supposed to be no rain! Clear skies!"

I laughed, tossing the remaining food wrappers and empty soda cans into the trash. Liz continued to look flabbergasted as I dragged her out of the park and she walked me down to my apartment building.

"I still don't get it – I mean the meteorological report –"

"Okay, Liz. I don't care. It's okay," I chuckled, and then pulled her into another hug.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drop you to Columbia?" I asked.

"No," she sighed, giving up the flustered argument about the weather. "I'll be fine. I have got some thinking to do, evidently."

"And you know Zach and I are just a phone call away?" I reminded her.

She nodded, smiling.

"And you'll meet us for dinner before you have to leave tomorrow?"

"Yes. I promise," she said, hugging me again before she flagged down a taxi. I stayed there until the yellow car was out of sight, and then climbed back up to the apartment.

"Zach?" I called out as soon as I entered, hanging my coat on the hooks near the door.

"In here!" he called out from the study. The study – or the guest room, really – was the other room in our two bedroom apartment. We rarely had guests, usually spending holidays and reunions at Gallagher, or in London. For the most part, Zach had converted the room into a study, fully utilizing the bookcase, as well as installing a desk for the stacks of blueprints he needed for his work as an architect. The other side of the room had two separate filing cabinets, for each of our case files – at least the ones that were safe to leave a CIA facility. I left my shoes in our bedroom before making my way to the other room, flopping down on the bed that was never slept in.

"How was lunch?" he asked, looking up from the design board.

"Dramatic," I sighed. "Liz and Jonas might break up."

Zach frowned, and I wondered who he was more worried about – Liz or Jonas. I waved the thought away, knowing that he counted both as close friends. Honestly, I think the thing that was bothering all of us was the reality of breaking up. Macey and Preston had been fairly young, and not-so-serious, when they'd been doing whatever it was that they were. Josh and I (I ignored the slight sting I still felt when I thought of his death) were doomed to begin with. But other than that, our lives had been so entirely _not_ normal, that our relationships and friendships were the only normalcy we had. It wasn't just the spy business that brought us together – it was the Gallagher and Blackthorne thing. We were a very tightly knit sisterhood, and brotherhood. We'd always assumed we'd all remain together, so it seemed almost awkward to admit that things didn't always work out, even if you were on the same playing field. I shuddered at the idea of that ever happening to Bex's or, worse, my relationship.

I turned to watch Zach studying the sketching paper in front of him. It had a calming effect, watching him work – a lot like I used to feel when I used to watch Liz read or listen to audio lectures. It had been a pleasant surprise when Zach had first told me the cover he'd been assigned, something that had been assigned after calculating his extra-curricular interests from his Blackthorne reports. You could've colored me surprise when I realized he could _draw_ _._ What could this boy _not_ do? He read, he cooked, he was a brilliant dancer (and a hottie) and now he _drew_. And this was all without considering what a good agent he was. It was almost annoying. But he'd simply shrugged and smirked in the way that he did, and I'd let it go. It's not like he'd had other options - he'd been all for becoming a cook or even fixing cars in a garage. But, at least, one of us needed a job that looked like it paid enough for us to afford this apartment, without the money we earned from the government.

And it's not like I didn't have equally appealing options for a cover. After all, I'd completed a good chunk of my psychology degree from Georgetown – enough to earn an internship in counseling services. If not, I'd even had the option of doing a nursing degree and joining a hospital. But being in a counseling _or_ a medical environment didn't seem like enough of an escape from an already do-or-die life. Besides, I didn't _really_ want to study anymore. I already knew PhD level sciences, math, and politics. I _did_ graduate from a school for geniuses. I didn't need more. So, bar-tending it had been. It took a lot more elbow grease, but it kept me moving and happy – and on a bad day, I could rely on a good shot or two to keep me from punching someone in the face.

"What thoughts are you lost in?" Zach asked, and I realized I'd zoned out while staring at him. I shook my head and stood up. This entire Liz and Jonas dilemma was getting to me more than it ought to. After all, as their friend, it was my job only to make sure I was there for both of them. Still, a nervous flutter settled inside me, worrying about the possibility of Zach and I ever facing an issue we couldn't compromise on.

"Nothing. I'm going to take a nap, and then maybe afterwards I can get started on dinner," I said, kissing the top of his head as I stood up, frowning at the dark clouds churning outside. Liz's weather prediction was out the window (no pun intended), as I watched the slight drizzle start, threatening a storm within a few hours.

"Weather's really picking up," Zach frowned as well, turning in his chair to look out the window.

"Yeah," I mumbled, not wanting to jinx it by mentioning how it seemed like an omen.


	2. chapter two

**Hello, I have returned with a new chapter! I'm so blown away with your reviews and love - and I am _so so_ happy that so many of you followed. I'd love to hear what each and every one of you thought so _please_ leave a review. I love to hear from you guys. It makes my day.**

 **Here we have the next chapter. I'll be updating another deleted scene for FMOFMT some time in the middle of the week, so keep an eye out for that. It's something from Zach's POV, and I really enjoyed working on it, so I've got an idea and I wanted to know what you guys think: there's a LOT I have planned for this story, in terms of plot and emotional drama. And I find that since it's all from Cammie's POV, there will be a lot of vital information lost because there will be a lot of things happening that she might not be privy to. Although I love the thrill of having a first person narrative and an unreliable narrator, I fear too much might get lost. So, how do you guys feel about me throwing in some chapters from Zach's POV? I won't say alternating, because Cammie is still my main character. But there's a lot I want told from Zach's voice too, so what do you guys think about a few chapters here and there from his eyes?**

 **Comment and let me know! Also, let me know who else you expect/want to see in this story! Canon characters, and OC's from FMOFMT!**

 **For now, here have this chapter. I feel the need to point out that, although, I tried to work a lot with Google Maps for one of the locations mentioned later on in this chapter, I obviously had to make up a lot for storytelling convenience. Also, I MUST apologize for any spelling errors or grammar mistakes. It's 1:20 am, and I've re-read it so many times that I'm sure my mind has stopped registering mistakes.  
**

 **Chapter Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Ally Carter. I don't own copyrights to canon Gallagher Girls series material, and only own creative and intellectual property.**

* * *

 **Fool's Gold**

 **Chapter Two**

The weekend came and went, but the storm didn't let up. In fact, it became about five times worse. We couldn't even go out to dinner with Liz on Saturday night. Instead, we'd invited her over and Zach had made lamb roast ( _delicious,_ by the way) while Liz made red velvet cupcakes. Apparently, her baking-as-stress-relief had really taken well. She'd even spent the night when it looked like the rain wouldn't let up. Cabs were a pain to find – even Uber.

By the time Monday rolled around, we were all a little frustrated with the cloud cover. I usually walked to work, which was only a fifteen-minute walk. But I was forced to take the subway. It didn't help that my Monday shifts were morning ones, so there wasn't even much work to do behind the bar since service was low. Color me surprised when I walked in and found the place bustling. There weren't many people ordering drinks, but there were enough people looking for shelter in the rain. It amused me to see so many people unprepared for the weather, despite the entire weekend having been this bad.

Shedding my coat and bag in the employee locker room, I put on the black apron over the dark green polo shirt uniform and put on my most hospitable smile. It was useless, of course. Everyone was impatient and snippy, and whoever wasn't busy seating or serving had to deal with cleaning up. Water splashes from people's umbrellas, spilled coffee, bread crumbs. As I served my twentieth table that morning, I cringed at the floor, covered with wet and murky footprints. My wishes were with those who had clean up duty today.

"Two waffles with maple syrup on the side," I announced, placing the plates in front of the angry looking businessmen. One had a face strikingly similar to the disguise Mr. Smith had when I was in seventh grade (salt-and-pepper hair, salt-and-pepper mustache, fine laugh lines). The other was bald and red-faced, strikingly similar to a tomato. The second one grunted in response, while the first one mumbled a 'thank you' that he didn't sound genuine about. I kept the stupid smile on my face and let it fall when I walked back towards the kitchen.

"Fucking nightmare," Rajesh muttered under his breath, joining me. He had a splotch of mustard on his collar and was wiping it down with a wet napkin, which only seemed to be making the stain worse.

"What happened to you?" I asked my co-worker, and manager. It was a bad day when the manager was working tables.

"Some kid was playing with the condiment tray on his table. I'm going to rip my hair out. I don't even have any spare clothes today," he said, eyeing the yellow smudges on the napkin he'd been using.

"I think Sam has a spare shirt in the locker room," I suggested, grabbing an order of burger and fries before moving back to the tables. By the time I was back for the next one, Rajesh had returned, wearing the same polo the rest of us had to wear – but, apparently, three sizes too large.

"It was all he had," he explained. "I haven't worn this thing in years."

"Welcome to the trenches."

* * *

The morning continued to be busy, and I was contemplating giving up my break, but the phone I kept in my back pocket rang. I froze for a second. That wasn't my personal phone – the one I kept in my locker while I was at work. This was my work and emergency line, and I nudged Lucy – who was working the same section as I was – to take over for a few minutes. Shuffling to the back room, I pulled out the phone and hit the button to accept the call.

As expected, there was an automated sound on the other end.

" _You have a collect call from Deermont Correctional Unit. Will you accept the charges –_ "

"Yes," I replied.

There was a second of no noise, and then a pleasant voice on the other end responded.

"Hey, Janice," said the same voice I'd come to associate with safety protocol.

"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number."

"Wh – No, I'm sure I don't. Is this not Janice of 34, Thaine Way, Palo Alto?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Palo Alto is a long way from here," I recited back the phrase I'd memorized.

"My mistake."

"Don't mention it."

There was a click, similar to the line being hung up, but I knew that this was merely protocol to make sure I was the one who had the phone. I heard a few more clicks, suggesting that the line was secure, before Townsend's voice flowed through the speaker.

"Agent Morgan. Pleasant morning, I hope?"

"Not pleasant enough for me to make small talk," I grumbled, even though I'd happily take a mission right now over one more coffee refill.

"Glad to hear it," he said, and I detected a hint of genuine gratitude. I'd known the man seven years and he was still all business.

"So, what's up?"

"Track and report mission," he stated. This didn't surprise me. Track and report missions were far less dangerous than the ones that required direct involvement – but that also depended on _who_ was the one being tracked. If they were asking me to go then it had to be someone relatively dangerous – I'd been an agent long enough to earn that rating. Besides, tracking was what I did best. Pavement artist and all.

"You'll take Agent Goode," he added.

"Why?" I asked, frowning. Not that I'm complaining. Trust me, I'm not. It just seemed curious to send in two people for tracking and reporting.

"Because I'm not sending you to track _one_ person. I'm sending you to track three – it'll make all our lives easier if you have more than one person there."

"Where to?"

"Russia."

"Russia? Why?" I asked, pleasantly surprised.

"I'll tell you that when we meet tonight. Ten o'clock. Sundial."

I heard the line go silent and finally hung up.

"Cameron!" I heard someone call, and Rajesh came into the room.

"Taking your break?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Not really. I can help –"

"Take fifteen," he said, and then tilted his head towards the door. "Zach's here to see you, anyway."

That was odd. It was only eleven in the morning. He usually dropped by for lunch, but it was still early. Taking off the apron, I grabbed my wallet and other phone before moving through the restaurant. The crowd had thinned, and I looked outside to see that the rain had briefly stopped. People were taking full advantage of it, and I could see that there was already a flock of pedestrians. Zach stood just inside the door. He hadn't taken off his jacket, but as I got closer I noticed that there was some water sliding off the leather, which probably meant that it had stopped raining only a few minutes ago. There were even water droplets stuck in his hair.

"Hey. You look like a disaster," he said, putting an arm around me and steering me out the door. I breathed deeply as soon as we stepped out, enjoying the lack of water – even though it was slightly humid. I hated humidity. I could handle it during the summer, because I was prepared for it. But feeling sticky during the colder months sucked. It didn't feel like winter was coming.

"How come you're here? Aren't you supposed to be at work?" I asked, as we started walking. We usually walked a couple of times around the block to get some fresh air, before we had to head our own ways.

"Monty's gone for an inspection; and I finished most of my work during the weekend. It's been a lighter day than the one I'm assuming you had."

I pouted, slightly jealous.

"Did Townsend call?" he asked.

"Yeah. He's meeting us tonight. I can't wait to get out. It feels like forever."

"You went to Beijing last week," he reminded me.

I shrugged. That still felt like it was too long, even though I'd had to come back to a panicking Rajesh and vowed to make his life easier for a bit. He'd made me promise that I wouldn't take any impromptu trips anymore (which had been my excuse) without making sure someone could cover my shift. I'm pretty sure I'd already filled my vacation and sick leave quota. It was a miracle he hadn't fired me yet – but he insisted that I was the only one who didn't tire out as fast as most did, and I'd taken the least amount of time to memorize the entire cocktail menu. I sighed knowing that I'd have to make up some other excuse, even though I was, technically, a part time employee.

"What do you think is in Russia?" I asked, turning to Zach. He shrugged, although there was a slightly excited look in his eyes. He _loved_ missions to Russia. Not only was the Russian accent his easiest one to mimic, but Russian had also been the first language he'd learned at Blackthorne. It was the one that came easiest to him. That, and I knew that Catherine Goode had spent a few years there when Zach was a child. Between the Blackthorne tutelage, and his childhood exposure, Russia was home ground for him - even though the memory was associated with someone he hated.

"Maybe it's Drozdov again? He's been getting a little unruly lately. I saw him in Paris, actually. He must be back home," Zach said.

Aleksei Drozdov was, at first glance, an extremely handsome man with an extremely horrific scar down one side of his face. At second glance, he was also pretty terrifying, since he came from one of the most notorious Russian mobs – and he was the heir. Co-regent to a wealthy empire, there was nothing the Drozdov family _didn't_ do. Drug smuggling, arms trading, human trafficking – hell, they even had investments in some big corporate names (I can't name them, of course, but you would not _believe_.)

If it really was Drozdov, then it wasn't surprising that they were sending two experienced agents. The empire had been responsible for a lot of trouble in that entire Eurasian belt, and between the Interpol, MI6 (and 5), local police, and CIA, we'd lost a lot of sleep, money, and agents to them. I shivered, remembering that a year ago, two of our deep cover agents had been made. One had gone MIA, and the other – none other than Eva Alvarez – had nearly died.

"No wonder it's only track and report," I said, as we turned the corner. "They can't risk sending us undercover again, so soon."

"They will have to at some point. That entire damn empire needs to shut down already. Every time we cripple them, they come back stronger. It's pathetic," he huffed, and I knew why he was angry. Family businesses tended to be a sore spot for someone who was born into a terrorist cell themselves. Zach was always reminded of it whenever something came up related to the Circle – we'd always have to watch our backs that way. Just because the inner circle had vanished, and Catherine's cell had dissolved, didn't mean that there were no more Circle members out there. Maybe none with quite the same personal vendetta towards _us_ , but Circle members nonetheless. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them even knew Drozdov.

"I have to head back," Zach said, and I was about to hit the fourteen minute mark on my break, as well.

"I'll meet you at home for dinner," I said, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before we headed our separate ways.

* * *

Later that night, we had a quick meal of okra and lentils with rice before we got dressed to meet Townsend. We left at separate times, taking different routes, doubling back again to lose tails. By the time I walked out of the 116th street station, it was 9:45. The rain appeared to have stopped for good, and there was a cold breeze. I crossed the street and met Zach, who was already waiting for me by the Columbia University gates. We walked in together and up the iconic steps, seating ourselves right next to the Sundial. Zach pulled out a notebook, and I crossed my legs, watching him as if we were two students simply studying. Even at this time of the night, the place was well lit from the street lights and the lights from the towering library behind us.

A few minutes later, Townsend sat next to us. It was something I rarely got used to, seeing him in jeans and a hoodie. You'd think I'd see enough of him to get used to the casual clothes, but even when we were hanging out with family and friends he was always, at least, wearing dress pants. I don't think I'd ever seen the guy wear sneakers, like he was now. He didn't look uncomfortable but I could imagine he was. Sadly, some of our secretive meetings couldn't take place indoors, where it was easy to bug the place. Zach and I had, of course, already checked the Sundial (discreetly) to make sure it wasn't bugged, but we felt much safer knowing that I had my back to a majority of the cameras and my hair hanging in my face, while Zach had his hood up.

Townsend took out a textbook of his own, as if he'd just joined our little study group. But the papers were hardly related to quantum physics, no matter what the cover said.

Zach had been right. It _was_ Drozdov.

"I'm sure I don't have to give you background on who that is," Townsend said. "He's been sighted in St. Petersburg, and according to our intel, he spent the last week in Paris. The week before that, he was in Cannes. Interpol tells us he's been up to no good."

"What's he done now?" I asked.

"He was seen meeting Olga de Beauvoir. She's runs her own little art business, although they've never actually managed to find anything outside of circumstantial evidence to prove that she deals in mostly stolen artifacts."

He pulled out a few grainy pictures of two people talking – one was clearly Drozdov, and another was the woman I assumed was Beauvoir.

"Beauvoir," Townsend continued. "Is a known associate to someone troubling, and _that's_ what is troubling us."

He flipped a few pages, and Zach pretended to be noting down something, before we saw a few more pictures.

"Milo Lehman," Townsend said. "Him and his friends are suspected of money laundering in Germany. Now, Drozdov could be meeting with Beauvoir for many reasons, but the two don't exactly have good history. They were married briefly in 1990, and divorced soon after. It wasn't pretty. Since then, any interaction between the two has been bloody – literally. Unless they've magically resolved a feud that's twenty-five years old, I suspect it's a business meeting. Beauvoir doesn't get involved directly in anything illegal – it's her way of making sure she doesn't leave trails. More likely than not, she's third party. And of all her known associates, the only one with no real enmity towards the Drozdov empire would be Lehman's group."

"What do you want us to do?" Zach asked.

"Tail the Drozdovs," he said simply, and I felt my heart jump. Tail Drozdov? I could easily trail any of the people in his outer circles, his chauffer, or even his housekeeper. Hell, maybe even one of his cousins. But tailing Aleksei and Sonya Drozdov, along with their father Nikolai, would be a living nightmare. If it was easy, then their empire wouldn't have expanded to the way it was today.

"What are we looking for?" I asked.

"Anything – and I mean _anything_ – that suggests he's up to no good with Beauvoir, or that he's attempting to establish an association with Milo Lehman. And _do not_ attempt to pursue. This is purely track and report. If there's something fishy going on, I'm pretty sure there's a bigger picture. Our nearer goal is not to take down the Drozdovs. As bad as they are, if they're working with someone _outside,_ then it's five times worse and five times more important."

He stood up then, not wanting to stick around longer than he had to. He gave me a flash drive, which I assumed contained all the information about our covers, where we had to go, all the protocols we had to follow, and who our handler would be. And then, in a troubling habit that he'd passed onto his son, he vanished into the night.

* * *

St. Petersburg was cold – that was not a surprise. It was _always_ cold here. Honestly, I feel like people tragically underestimate the Russian climate. But we didn't. We knew the place.

My breath curled into a steam cloud as I pushed my bag strap higher, boots crunching through rocks and pebbles. Behind me, I couldn't hear Zach – _spy_ – but I could feel his presence. We'd arrived in the city three hours ago, and after a whole lot of counter-surveilling, we'd made our way to the abandoned rail yard. It wasn't so much abandoned as it was an ignored part of the railway station. If you listened carefully over the sound of groaning metal, you could hear the trains pulling in and out, and the muffled sound of announcements. And in the background, the constant rush of the Neva and the Fontanka.

We walked for a few more minutes before we recognized the train carriage we'd memorized. I pulled out the set of keys in my pocket and unlocked the door, sliding across the heavy bolt and dragging the door open. Zach jumped on first, and I followed, tossing my bag to the floor. He slid the door shut behind us and darkness surrounded us.

"Hungry?" Zach asked in Russian. "It's going to be a long day."

"I can manage – " I started, but then stopped when he tossed me a familiar yellow packet.

Peanut M&Ms.

"Or not," I grinned, ripping it open and popping one in my mouth. He turned on his phone's flashlight and let it sweep the side wall before a tiny hole in the wooden panels made itself known. Crossing the carriage, he slid aside a panel on the wall and a keypad lit up.

" _Please enter your identification code, Agent_ ," an automated voice said, in English.

He entered his unique identification, and then a clear panel replaced the keypad. He pressed his palm against it while it ran a biometric scan of his prints. Once the panel turned green, the side door slid open and we moved into the neighboring carriage.

As soon as the door shut behind us, the wooden walls slide aside to reveal chrome shelves. Industrial lighting came on, washing us in a cool bluish-white tint. Screens popped up from all corners, all sorts of weapons and artillery on the shelves. There was an entire closet of disguises, and beside it were two bunks. Between the bunks, on the wall, was an emergency lever and keypad. I noticed the red caution band around it, and my eyes turned to the similar red caution band on the fourth wall. It contained metallic cases, and there was one word printed across it: BURNBAG.

Just in case we were made and our hideout found.

Zach hauled his bag on top of one of the tables and pressed one of the buttons on its side. Half the table turned into a keyboard and monitor, and he quickly typed in his identification code again, securing his location on the Langley base. Then he moved aside so that I could do the same. Behind me, he was already grabbing a backpack – a grey Kipling one, standard tourist stuff. He was sliding in everything he would need for the rest of the day.

I pulled a messenger bag for myself, and started packing.

"Aleksei Drozdov was last seen exiting the Kempinski, eleven minutes ago," Zach said, reading the information that appeared on the screen. "Satellite images tracked his route. He's making his way towards Palace Square."

"How far is Palace Square from our location?" I asked, shedding the clothes I'd been wearing on the plane. The chill in the air made me shiver, but this was one of the things I liked about missions in cold places – layering disguises didn't make you feel like you'd die of a heatstroke.

"2.6 kilometers on foot. 4 kilometers if we drive. And that's without counter-surveillance," he said, shedding his own clothes and pulling on a black t-shirt. He rolled up his sleeve and I mimicked the action, before pressing a button on the computer screen. The words 'CALIBRATING LOCATION' appeared.

There was a beep and we both looked down at our own forearms, where a dull red dot under our skin signaled that we were in sync with each other.

No, I know. It sounds very barbaric to put trackers into someone's body - especially full time. Mine had been with me since I became an agent, only being replaced for updates. But, if you think about it, it's really not. It's _loads_ better than getting made - or going undercover - and then being searched for a tracking device. _And_ these were made of entirely plastic components, so there was no signature for a metal detector to pull up. In fact, I preferred these to the new nanotechnology that the labs were working on, ones that injected trackers into agents' bloodstreams. That was a level of surveillance even I wasn't comfortable with. It was only reserved for questionable assets and suspected rogue agents, but it still made me uncomfortable.

Sliding in the communication unit into my ear, I nodded at Zach.

"Well, then. We better get started."

* * *

Two days. Two days we'd tailed them and gotten absolutely nothing. On the first day, Sonya and Aleksei had started their days around noon, had lunch together, and then met with their father. While Zach had watched the long meeting between father and son, I'd followed Sonya (who'd ditched them halfway), and then suffered as she went on a _shopping spree_. They'd met again for dinner, and retired to their own suites at the Kempinski. The second day had involved yet _another_ shopping spree, made worse because even her brother and father joined. That had followed with a ridiculously long session of getting dressed, and then the family had headed to a dinner party hosted by one of their friends.

Zach and I had spent the entire night watching them mingle – Zach, dashing in a tux, pretending to be a young hotel heir; me, in a not so dashing black and white dress, pretending to be a waitress. At least, I didn't have to think twice about getting close to them, making excuses of refreshing their drinks and serving hors d'oeuvres.

Today was the third day, and I was starting to get a little irritated. Being a spy had _not_ improved my patience skills. Even Zach's constant chatter in my ear hadn't improved my mood – neither had the chatter from Khadija, who was on tech back at Langley. She was a good friend, having been the voice in my ear for the past two years. But even that didn't improve my mood.

It all seemed anti-climactic. In hindsight, I should've been glad that it was as calm as it could be before things went downhill.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs for the fourth time in the last seventeen minutes, absentmindedly stirring the contents of the coffee cup in my hand. I was seated on a bench in the Summer Garden. The back of my neck was itching, owing to the dark red, curly haired wig that covered my natural blonde hair – and the Velcro at the back of my dress was digging into my bra hooks, which not only made it a very itchy business, but also made me fear for the safety of a certain essential undergarment that may or may not come undone should I shed my clothing.

"Smile, Chameleon. You look like someone pissed in your cereal," came Zach's voice in my ear. I narrowed my eyes at him. He was seated a few benches down from me, with a beige coat and large glasses.

"Shut up, Falcon," I mumbled back, but rearranged my features nonetheless. Continuing the game of _Subway Surfers_ on my phone (I was at a 290,000 high score over the last three days), I watched the two figures at the end of the pathway. One was Nikolai Drozdov, and he had two of his personal guards with him. He'd been walking down the beautiful path, which was covered with arches that were in full bloom during the spring.

I kept an eye on the game (where I had just received a jetpack and was in _no_ danger of running into any trains for a few seconds), and then looked up pretending to be bored. My finger froze for a second, and there was the tell-tale music that told me that my game was over. Another figure had joined Drozdov and his guards. His back was to me, but the moment he turned to shake Nikolai's hand, I recognized the face.

Milo Lehman.

I stood up and brushed the creases out of my skirt, tossing the coffee cup into a trashcan.

"Falcon, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Yep."

"Chameleon," Khadija's voice buzzed in my ear. "You need to go across the street. We have another package on the move."

I turned in the direction that the meeting was happening in and kept walking. I could run into either Lehman or Drozdov, but their guards would tackle me before I got the chance. If these were their personal guards, I'd have to bug one of them. That was the only hope of getting anything out of this meeting.

"Oh – " I made a startled sound as I ran into the guard nearest to me. My book and phone went scattering to the ground and he bent down to pick them up. I bent down too, sliding a bug into his pocket, and then sending him a nervous smile when he handed me my things.

" _Spasibo,_ " I thanked him and continued walking.

Immediately, the conversation flowed into my ear piece, and I knew Zach and Khadija were hearing it, too. It was taking place in heavily accented English, and I assumed Milo didn't know Russian, and Nikolai wasn't that fluent in German. It didn't sound like extremely heavy conversation, especially if they were having it in a park in broad daylight. But, clearly, neither of them trusted the other enough to have this conversation in closed quarters.

There was just one phrase that stood out, one that was not part of the commonplace conversation.

"What's _Lithium_?" Zach wondered aloud in my earpiece, as I left the Summer Garden and crossed the street into the Field of Mars.

"Operation Lithium," Khadija's voice floated a few seconds later. She continued chattering about a cold case from the Second World War, a failed assassination attempt on Hitler. And by failed, it meant something that had died in the planning stages because it fell through due to tactical issues. It had been buried deep, and was something nobody had really even heard about, since it failed to have made its mark – nowhere in the leagues of operations like _Valkyrie_. Then Khadija went on to other possible meanings of "lithium". Could it be a reference to some kind of metallic equipment? A discussion of the elemental chart? An appreciation for the hit Evanescence song?

I kept my eyes trained on the figures in front of me – Aleksei and Sonya Drozdov. And they were walking right towards me.

I stood still, pretending to examine my phone, while Aleksei continued muttering something on his phone. In my earpiece, I could hear Milo and Nikolai talking about Beauvoir, and something about receiving half the package.

I hadn't exactly meant for it to happen; or rather, it was unexpected. The bright sunlight glinted off my phone edges and into my eyes, blinding me, and I automatically turned to avoid the glare. The glare changed course, and shone right into Aleksei's face.

His eyes immediately crinkled, making the scar shift menacingly, and he gave me a passing look. I smiled in a friendly manner and he slowed down.

My heart sped up. _Calm down,_ I told myself. He was probably just curious, or he was just noticing a redhead on the side of the pathway. But then his eyes narrowed, and I watched him mouth something.

I recognized the phrase immediately.

 _Lyubov moya._ My love. He'd called me that a few times before. Last night. At the party. When a waitress had caught his eye. Me being the waitress.

He hung up the phone and came up to me, and I schooled my expression into a curious one.

"Excuse me," he asked in Russian. "Have we met before?"

"Sorry?" I asked in English with an Alabama accent, making my voice more high pitched. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Russian."

"You and me," he repeated in broken English. "We meet before?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't think so."

"Sure?" he asked. "I remember –"

"Maybe you've seen me around. I've been on a city tour. But we haven't met, and I'm getting late. I'm sorry, I have to go," I said, giving him a polite smile and turning back towards the main gate.

"Are you certain, _lyubov moya_?" he called after me. I didn't allow myself to react to the phrase and give myself away. Instead, I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to Vitebsky Station.

"Chameleon, where are you going?" Khadija asked. She must've noticed my tracker moving rapidly in a different direction.

"Mission abort. I've been made," I spoke in Swahili, almost certain that the driver would never recognize the words.

"Made?" Zach asked. "But –"

Before he could finish, there was static in my earpiece, and I knew Drozdov's guard had found the bug. Aleksei must've called his father and told him something was fishy.

"Packages are leaving. In a hurry," Zach said.

"I'm booking you guys the first flight out, via Abu Dhabi," Khadija said. "It leaves in an hour. You both have thirty minutes to make it to customs."

I ripped off my jacket, tossing the driver a few bills as soon as he pulled up outside the station five minutes later. I pushed through the busy crowd, hoping that if there was someone on my tail then they'd lose me. I tossed the jacket in a trash can, along with my red wig, letting my blonde hair out of its bun. Stepping into a women's bathroom, I pushed into a stall and ripped off the dress. Underneath was a tight black shirt, and black slacks. I turned the dress inside out, and then ripped off the belt. The skirt and the top fell apart, into a black skirt and a jacket. I tossed the skirt behind the commode and pulled on the jacket, and then rushed out of the bathroom.

Walking briskly through the crowd, I jumped off the platform and then ran towards the outdoors, crossing railway lines until I reached the yard. Then I broke into a run. Rushing through biometrics, I ran into the compartment and started gathering whatever information I could and tossing it into the burn bag. I couldn't be certain that our hideout had been made along with us, but there was no such thing as being too careful. Everything that was important was already uploaded at Langley, thanks to Khadija.

Behind me, I heard the door slide open. I grabbed a knife and turned.

"It's me," Zach said, walking around the weapon and grabbing more information to toss away. His glasses were gone too, and I could see that his beige coat had been turned inside out to make the brown one he donned right now. He threw me a phone.

"What's this?"

"I swiped it."

"From?"

"Lehman," he grinned.

Once we had our passports and any travel documents we would need, we grabbed a gun and knife each and then initiated emergency protocol. Immediately, a timer started, and we jumped out of the compartment just as the first signs of smoke and sparks started. Running across the yard and towards the parking lot, he tossed me a set of keys. We both hit the button on the remotes in each of our hands.

Two bikes at the end of the lot beeped. Getting onto one each, we tore through the lot and out onto the street. I knew that the airport was twenty-two minutes away. We had only eighteen minutes and seven seconds left. Being on a bike made our lives much easier, as we zipped past cars and cut through alleys.

I heard tires screech behind me and saw two black SUVs and three bikes speeding towards us.

"We have a tail," I spoke into my comm unit.

"You guys need to split up," Khadija said.

"I'll draw their fire. Falcon, meet me at the Moskovsky Avenue junction."

I turned left, into another alley, and noticed one of the bikers and one of the cars turn in my direction. I revved the engine, and shot across, the wind whipping my hair underneath the helmet. My right mirror shattered as soon as it was hit with a bullet.

I ducked the gunfire, swerving the bike in a zig-zag pattern to avoid getting hit. I could hear people shouting in the background and I was very aware of how much time we had left. I turned left again, onto the main road. My finger was practically glued to the horn, warning civilians to get out of the way. I heard people screaming as some of them heard guns, while others moved out of our way.

I turned right at the signal, and then suddenly turned left – the biker behind me lost control and his bike dragged him across the ground in a shower of sparks. His reflection burst into shards as my second mirror got taken out. I eyed the junction ahead of me, noticing the heavy traffic.

"I need to get out of the traffic," I mumbled.

"There's no other route near you," Khadija spoke. "You need to go through it, Chameleon – Falcon, take the next left."

I took a turn into the alley beside me and came to a complete stop. The SUV followed behind me, and I watched the driver's face morph from determination to panic as he grabbed the emergency brake. The vehicle drifted, and I dove out of the way as the side slammed into my bike. The rough ground scraped my knees and elbows, but I got to my feet and ran. I heard two people in pursuit behind me, and in front of me lay the main road full of civilians.

It was too late. There was only one thing left to do. I turned around, hopped onto the dumpster, and then jumped on the guy closest to me. He floundered, surprised, and I dove my elbow into his collar.

He howled in pain as I brought us tumbling to the ground, using him as cover as his partner shot in our direction. With one solid punch, I knocked out the guy on top of me. But by the time I righted myself, his buddy rammed into me, sending both of us to the ground. He tore my helmet off and tossed it aside, and I responded by grabbing his wrist and twisting it. His other hand came to punch me in the face – _seriously? Ambidextrous?_

I smashed the heel of my palm into his nose, and when he staggered back, I used my weight to throw him off. Kicking him once in the jaw to knock him out, I stumbled back towards the main road.

"Falcon, where are you?"

"You guys are a minute apart," Khadija spoke.

I turned and saw Zach's bike approaching me, and he slowed down long enough for me to hop onto the back.

"You okay?" he called out.

"Yeah – oh, shit," I cursed, ducking as another gunshot sounded behind me. Zach had managed to lose the SUV that had followed him, but one of the bikers remained.

"Slow down. Let him catch up," I said.

"He has a _gun_ ," he reminded me.

"So do I."

"This isn't the place for a showdown, Chameleon," he said, and I knew he was referring to the civilians around us.

"Trust me."

And he did, so he slowed down. The biker, as expected, didn't see it coming. As soon as he crossed us, I reached out and grabbed the back of his jacket. His body tugged backwards, while his bike shot forward, sending both skidding across the ground. I let go so that Zach could swerve and avoid the crash.

"One of these days you're going to get us killed," Zach mumbled as he continued speeding towards our destination.

"Yeah. But for now, we're alive."

* * *

We made it to the airport in record time, and I had to stop my cut lip from bleeding before we got dragged away by airport security. In the mean time, Zach explained in hushed tones how he'd taken advantage of Lehman and Drozdov panicking about a tail and swiped the phone Lehman tossed in the trash. Even if it was no longer in use, he hadn't had time to clear it. Zach had immediately turned it off so that Lehman couldn't remotely erase data from it. We'd have to go to Langley and examine its contents.

Once we were past customs, we hurried towards the gate, but there was a lot less to worry about. Even Drozdov's thugs couldn't get to us without having to go through a _lot_ of security checks. The line at the gate was still pretty long. My comm unit (and our weapons, obviously) had been disabled and ditched before we went through screening, so I only had Zach's voice beside me for company.

"That was a close one," he whispered into my ear, his arm around me, as we pretended to be just your average, traveling couple.

I would've responded, but my mind was buzzing with activity. We'd been made – but not before we knew for certain what Townsend had suspected. Lehman and Drozdov were working together. And whatever it was, it had something to do with this mysterious Lithium. Of course, there were more missing details, but we'd managed to get something to go off of.

"You know I think – "

"Cammie," Zach interrupted me in a quiet voice, and I looked at his expression. His face had gone a little pale, and his eyes were wide. I turned to see what had caused that reaction and my eyes widened at the television screen.

" _Although the FBI and local police have secured the area, hundreds of citizens are sitting terrified in their homes. As of now, the death toll stands at thirty, seven of whom include police officers. Let's talk to Chief of Police, Eric Laudson,"_ rattled the reporter on the screen. In the background was footage of smoke and fire, and paramedics rushing around.

" _This was an act of great violence. Our hearts go out to those lost today –_ " the Chief spoke, but my eyes were glued to the information scrolling across the screen. Bomb blast in Washington, D.C. Civilian and police casualties. Ceremony to honor brave cops turns into tragedy. The President and his family escorted away by Secret Service.

The President and his family escorted away. By Secret Service.

The President's family's guards.

Before I could reach for my phone, it buzzed. I answered it without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Cammie," came Macey's slightly frantic voice on the other end. "You'd better come home quick. I don't know if you saw the news, but something bad has happened."


	3. chapter three

**Hello my lovelies! For one, I am so sorry I vanished for so long. This chapter was so hard for me to write - not because of anything particularly dramatic in content. In fact, it was quite the opposite. This chapter was a slower one, and I seem to be worse at those when it comes to writing multi chapters. I was stuck with quite the writer's block, so I took a little break and came back with a fresher outlook. I'm still not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I had to come to terms with the fact that this was just one of those chapters where every draft was going to be slightly iffy to me. This was the one I was least upset about. On the bright side, it's one difficult jump I made before being able to smooth out the next chapter.**

 **So, I decided to make up for my absence with a longer chapter! Almost 9k words - it's a miracle.  
**

 **Also, in the mean time, I've started working on some one shots for Gallagher Girls and Heist Society. Given that I'm so particular about my headcanons, unless they're AU oneshots, they'll be set in the same universe as Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice and Fool's Gold. Some will be set in the past - you could consider them as flashbacks to these series. Some in the future. Some Heist Society ones that run on a parallel timeline. And some entirely AU. Either way, I'd love to know what you think about them.**

 **For now, I've only posted one, set in the same universe as this one, on the night of their graduation. It's called Hypnotic, so go check it out and drop a review! **

**Your love and reviews help me a lot, so let me know what you think! I want to hear more from you guys; hearing what you guys anticipate, like/dislike, want, etc. really helps with the creativity. Trust me.**

 **So, let me know! As for now, I leave you to read. And, as always, sorry for any overlooked grammatical errors.  
**

 **Chapter Rating: M (implied sexual content)**

 **Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Ally Carter. I don't own copyrights to canon Gallagher Girls material, and only own creative and intellectual property.**

* * *

 **Fool's Gold**

 **Chapter Three**

Anxiety couldn't even begin to describe the mood I was in. Right from the moment the adrenaline had worn off, until we landed in America, I had to actively avoid my body from shaking with nerves. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, which was a real first for me. I'd tried my level best, but the images from the news kept rolling through my head. The most I'd been able to do was swipe a few copies of newspapers, hoping that they would be enough for me to piece together a premise, at the very least. But, as most journalism goes, the details were muddled up – owing to the fact that it was an ongoing investigation surrounding the First family. Some reports said that forty people had died; some said thirty. Some said that casualty numbers were still rising. But one thing stood common – there had been an attempted attack at an event that the President was meant to be attending. The entire country was going to be in a state of panic. An assassination of the President, though not exactly unheard of in American history, was extremely worrying.

I couldn't stop myself from replaying Macey's worried voice over and over again. For obvious reasons, she hadn't been able to disclose details about the attack while she was on the phone with me. But it had been a long time since I'd heard her this worried. It wasn't often that Macey McHenry was rattled – especially over the last few years, as she worked closely with the First family for the Secret Service. These kinds of things were something you were always prepared for. But something inside Macey had been shaken by the entire thing; as if she'd been propelled back to another day when another politician's family had been attacked.

Maybe it was my own thoughts being reflected onto her, but I still worried. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew she'd be on strict lock down. Getting through to her would be impossible - at least for a little while. I had to be patient. Patience wasn't exactly my strongest suit. I was rushing around, even as I entered Langley's headquarters. Zach was hot on my heels.

"Agents!" came Townsend's slightly frantic voice as we both walked into the corridor. We'd headed to Langley as soon as we'd stepped onto American soil, and the moment we'd entered the floor we usually worked on, Townsend had found us. He looked a little disheveled, and I couldn't blame him for it. Everyone was on high alert - and I'd just been made on the first stage of a very important mission. It didn't set good precedent for the rest of the work that lay in front of us. That was, if Townsend deemed it fitting to let me go back to the field, for this case.

That was another thing that couldn't stop haunting my mind. The fact that I'd been made so easily. I hadn't let it bother me before, but the past few hours that I'd had to my own thoughts hadn't exactly helped in the downward shame spiral.

"What's happening?" Zach asked, walking ahead of me. "We heard about the attack – "

"The mission," Townsend interrupted, looking at me. "Agent Kanzari informed me that you managed to get your hands on some information. An Operation Lithium, and a _phone_ – "

"No trackers. I checked before swiping it," Zach said, pulling out the evidence bag from his coat pocket and handing it over. "But what's going on here? National security is being compromised."

"Agent Goode," Townsend said. "Are you forgetting what comes under our jurisdiction?"

Townsend had a point, although I was sure it was one Zach knew well. Technically, national security was not at all our area of interest. Sure, it was what prompted us to carry out half our missions, but working on securing the country was hardly what we did. That was the FBI's job. But I wouldn't be surprised if more of our agents were being sent on missions to see if there was helpful chatter happening on foreign grounds about this attack.

"No," Zach replied, raising an eyebrow. "But, what's happening? Is the FBI collaborating?"

"Yes, they are. And you guys are the first ones they want to talk to. We need to process this evidence before that happens. I don't want the FBI meddling around here and messing up this entire operation. Freshen up and meet me in Board Room 145, in twenty minutes."

Zach and I shared startled looks.

The FBI wanted to talk to us? Why? That made very little sense, since we barely even had any idea of what was going on. What reason did the FBI have to talk to us? Did they suspect somebody we'd previously been assigned to? Did they want us to do something for them? We'd only just made it back home – and even though I'd known from the start that this was just the beginning of something big, it seemed like a very large leap for the FBI to come straight to the both of us.

Bewildered, I turned around. While Townsend headed straight for the elevators, Zach and I went to the locker rooms, where we always had a locker assigned to each of us, with extra utilities. I was glad for it. I was starting to feel like I'd never stop smelling like hell.

* * *

I was pink by the time I came out of the shower. The ten minutes I'd spent in there had felt like a lifetime, while I watched dirt, and grime, and flecks of hidden, dried blood wash away from my body. The more time I spent scrubbing my skin, the more vigorous my actions became, as if I could step out of this chameleon skin that had betrayed me. One simple glint of a reflection, and I'd been made. I was someone who'd done far more dangerous missions, and gotten away with them because I was _Cammie Morgan -_ Cammie, the Chameleon. For some reason, in St. Petersburg, that had betrayed me.

Being made wasn't something that happened to me - at least, not so early on in a mission. If I hadn't gotten away on time, the entire mission would've blown before it even started. How I'd managed to mess up in the recon stage was something that continued to elude me. So, I scrubbed, and I scrubbed, until I couldn't anymore. When I'd had enough, I stepped out with a frown crowning my eyes.

"Now, I'm really confused," I said, sitting on one of the benches in gym shorts and a sports bra. I had a tablet in my hand, my finger furiously swiping from one screen to the other as more and more reports came in. There was, at least, a confirmed number of casualties – thirty-seven people. Ten police officers (of which three were there to receive an award), five journalists, nine family members of police officers, and two members of the Secret Service. Being back at HQ definitely made it easier to piece this stuff together.

"Confused about what? Our Operation, the FBI, or the attack?" Zach asked, running a towel through his hair and pulling on a plain, grey t-shirt with the CIA crest on it.

"All of the above?" I said, although it sounded a lot more like a question. I turned back to the screen and wiped away some of the water droplets that had dripped from my hair. Zach gently tugged away the tablet and the next thing I knew, I was sputtering as he put a towel over my head and started drying it. I let him work my hair over while I closed my eyes and took a moment to collect myself. A lot had happened over the past few hours, and I was beginning to think that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Everything was starting to become complicated, and this attack at the same time as a mission in Russia seemed far too coincidental. I knew, logically, a lot of things happened at the same time, all over the world. The planet, and its population, was far too big for things to take place sequentially. Yet, it seemed that way.

"I can feel your head whirring towards anxiety," Zach said, pushing the towel off my head and planting a kiss on the damp strands.

"Quite the talent," I replied, raising my eyebrows and tilting my chin up. He smirked and leaned down, gently kissing my lips, straying away from the healing cut on them. I ignored the cut and simply put my hand on his jaw to give him a proper kiss.

"It's probably just basic questioning," Zach pondered, still planting gentle kisses. "They must know that we're associates, and friends, of Macey."

"Basic questioning," I nodded, even though it sounded like a lie. Shaking my head and dropping the towel on the bench, I stood up to throw on my own CIA t-shirt. I used to find them so embarrassing, a bit like the gym shirts I'd seen in Lizzie and Macey's school pictures. But now I found them convenient, and surprisingly comfortable.

"We're going to be fine," I said, my standard motto before we both jumped headfirst into trouble.

"See you on the other side," he replied, with _his_ standard motto.

* * *

"Well, you guys certainly look better," Khadija announced, getting up from her seat to give each of us a hug. I smiled and hugged her back tightly. She allowed me to, knowing that this was my own way of showing gratitude for everything she did from here, for Zach and me. I squeezed her once more before pulling back and going into business mode.

"Was the phone helpful?" Zach asked, dropping into an empty seat. I sat down across from him.

"Definitely," Khadija said, pulling up files on her laptop. Zach and I turned to see what was being projected on the screen. "You did a good job keeping it remote, but I still ran multiple scrambles on it before accessing any data. Just in case."

"What did you find?" I asked, leaning forward and squinting at the multiple lines of code that ran across the screen.

"Just two contact numbers, frequently called over the past one week. I'm guessing this is some kind of backup phone, or one of many Lehman has been using, since it seems unlikely that he'd only have two contacts. If he keeps different phones for different business deals, then these contact numbers are closely linked to each other," Khadija responded.

"Can you trace – " Townsend started, stepping into the room as if he'd been here for the entire conversation.

"Already done it," she said, pulling up two distinct maps. One was of St. Petersburg – I recognized some of the streets I'd been on over the past few days. The other had German writing on it. It took me a few seconds to recognize the street layouts and names.

"Is that Frankfurt?" I asked, squinting.

"Yep," Khadija nodded. "I keep refreshing the trace every few minutes, so this location is live. And I dipped into satellite and street camera imaging. The person in St. Petersburg is the same guard you bugged – Drozdov's guard. I'm guessing he's the one maintaining contact between Lehman and the Drozdovs."

"Who's in Frankfurt?" Townsend asked.

"That would be Maude Lehman," Khadija said, pulling up files on Milo Lehman's equally – if not more – notorious twin sister. The two were known to cause havoc together, but as far as individual talents went, Milo was known for debauchery, while Maude was known for skinning people alive. Quite the sibling duo those two made.

"So, he's contacting his sister," Zach said, a disappointed tone in his voice. Of course, it made perfect sense for both the Lehmans to be in on such a big deal, whatever the deal was. Having Milo contacting her was an obvious conclusion to be drawn – something we would've known even without the phone. I reached forward to lightly brush Zach's fingertips with my own.

"Ah. But that's not the shocking part," Khadija said, pulling up more street camera images. "What is shocking is the person she appears to be with. Ever heard of Luther Hofmann?"

"Vaguely. German arms dealer. Runs something of a radical group, right?" Zach asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Radical is one way of putting it," said a different voice from the doorway. We all turned to watch the man enter the room, the cool way in which he took off his shades and jacket to reveal glittering green eyes and toned arms (respectively, obviously).

"Joe!" Zach and I exclaimed at the same time, standing up to greet him in the most excited way that boardroom decorum allowed. He had his usual knowing grin on his face, even as I gaped at him. Last I'd heard, he was taking the week off and spending it at home - a townhouse in Richmond, Virginia, only a short drive from Gallagher. Seeing him here was as unexpected as everything else that was going on, even if I'd learned to never _not_ expect Joe to do something.

"Agent Solomon," Townsend nodded, turning back to the screen. "Care to share some information about Hofmann?"

"Ah, Luther Hofmann," Joe said, taking a seat beside Zach. He looked thoughtfully at the images, and then turned to look at us. "I tailed him in the 90s, back when he was just starting out as an arms dealer. It was some pretty basic intel, given that he was dealing to some fishy clients who happened to be on our questionable lists. Over the years he's amassed quite the band of workers, spread all over Germany and Austria."

"Just from arms dealing?" Khadija asked, frowning and typing furiously at her laptop. I assumed she was trying to dig up more information on this Hofmann character.

"Yes, but not just for crime syndicates and drug lords," Joe shook his head. "Hofmann fancies himself as a resource person for neo-Nazi groups in that region of Europe."

Zach let out a hiss of breath through his teeth, his face contorted with disgust.

"You're kidding," I breathed.

"I wish, kid," Joe said, using the nickname he'd picked up ever since he'd married Mom. "But he doesn't exactly have a moral compass that points due north. He's got a sick little game show running in these regions, and if the Lehmans – or Drozdovs – are involved then we've got some serious worrying to do. Neo-Nazis working _with_ Russian mobsters can never be a good sign."

" _That's_ why they were using the term Lithium," Khadija announced, pulling up the same files on Operation Lithium she'd skimmed over earlier. "I'm assuming they're somewhat reclaiming the term, since they probably _didn't_ want Hitler to get killed – god, these people sound gross. They're suspected of providing weapons to groups that incite violence and hate crimes in civilian pockets of Germany and Austria. It's sickening."

"He calls his group _Schwarzes Blut_ ," Joe added, wrinkling his nose.

"Black Blood," I translated easily. "Well he's got that right. What a rotten group."

Rotten seemed like a playground word to use for this kind of activity, but I couldn't muster a word bad enough to label them. You'd think that working with the CIA meant that we'd get used to all kinds of bends and twists that the human morality could take us, but it always surprised me more and more as to how low people could drop. Neo-Nazi groups. It was sick.

Zach helped me out by supplying a bad enough word for both of us. Or two, or three. For once, Townsend didn't reprimand him for language.

Everyone remained silent for a few minutes, before Joe shook his head, repeating what he'd said earlier.

"If Hofmann is working with the Drozdovs then you guys need to be very careful. He's not exactly the forgiving type, and he'd do anything before letting his plans get sabotaged. Especially if they're grand enough to involve the Russians."

"So, what next?" Zach asked. "We were made in Russia. We can't go back so soon. We need to lay low for a little while."

I cringed at the reminder, waiting for someone to throw me a reprimanding look - as if this had been my fault entirely. I couldn't even bring myself to look away from the scratch on the table I'd been staring at. But when I finally mustered the strength to accept the responsibility, nobody had even glanced at me.

"And you will," Townsend continued, oblivious to my internal dilemma. "There is still a lot we can do from here. We have some associates of Hofmann under our custody. We start by questioning them. We gather intel on these two game players before we jump back into action."

We nodded and stood up, and Townsend promised to relay us the next plan of action within twenty-four hours. Until then, we knew we were free to go back to wherever we wanted. We could just return to New York. But I wanted to see Macey as soon as she was freed up. And, to be honest, I didn't feel like being far from Langley when there was a good chance that anything new might come up at any given moment.

"Hey," I suddenly asked, turning to Townsend. "Why did the FBI want to talk to us?"

Townsend sighed.

"I shooed them away. They think the attack on the award ceremony may have been linked to someone named Russell – some criminal in Los Angeles. They know you've run into him before. They had some pretty standard questions, but I sent them packing. There was nothing in there that they couldn't find from somewhere else."

I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if he was hiding something from me. But, like his son, Townsend had a ridiculously talented poker face. His expression gave way for nothing other than cool, business-like politeness. I nodded once before walking out the door. The moment it shut behind us, Joe turned to us and smiled.

"Now, how about a real hug and proper welcome?"

* * *

"I can't believe you're here," I said for the hundredth time as I grinned at Joe, as soon as we were outside HQ. It made my jaw hurt just a little, but I got over it. It was hardly the worst injury I'd ever received. I was usually more sore from sparring in the gym. He gave me a sheepish grin in return.

"Such a big operation and you think I wouldn't want in on it?" he asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow. I blinked at the expression. It reminded me of that old picture of him and my dad at Blackthorne. It reminded me of the badass teacher we'd got at Gallagher. There was something ridiculously young and reckless about it. Immediately, I narrowed my eyes at him.

"And my Mom approved of this?"

My expression must've looked highly skeptical, because his grin wavered. Joe and Rachel Solomon were a pair that did very little ground work these days, mostly sticking to low-key missions that had small danger margins. It's not that they'd gotten old or anything. My mom and Joe were definitely still just as dedicated and talented agents – they didn't look even a little bit their age. But, I guess Mom and Joe learned their lesson from me. The girl who went a little crazy after her father died. They didn't want their daughter going through the same.

Oh, right – I did mention that, didn't I?

Didn't I?

Quick recap, then.

About three years, or so, after their marriage, Joe and Rachel Solomon called one Cammie Morgan (that's me) in the middle of the night. When I'd first picked up the phone, bleary eyed and irritated at being woken, I'd immediately panicked at the tone of their voice. It sounded breathless, and scared, and immensely worried. Imagine my surprise when my Mom finally managed to blurt out that she was pregnant. Before I could've even summoned an appropriate reaction to this confirmation that my Mom and step-dad had a sex life (ew!), they'd insisted that it hadn't been planned – which confirmed that they had _casual, impromptu_ sex (double ew!).

I'm not going to lie; I could see why they were so nervous. For starters, if I hadn't been a twenty-one year-old when I heard about it, I would've raged and acted jealous. What my mom and I had was something special, something cultivated from a unique bond shared between mothers and only children. I hardly wanted to share something like that with a brand new half-sibling. Secondly, even if I did approve (which I did, completely, totally did), Joe was panicking for entirely different reasons. He'd never been a father. His role in my life had been that of a somewhat cool uncle-slash-stepfather. Even a non-spy would've been scared of that. But what I suspected had been the real cause of his worry was the idea that he might've crossed some invisible boundary by conceiving a child with my mother. Both of them being drawn together by a common loss, and falling in love, was something that seemed not _entirely_ out of this world. But the one thing that my dad still had was that he'd been the father of my mother's child – he'd been the one to have a family with her. Joe had clearly felt like he was invading a space he shouldn't have.

Of course, that pretty much vanished after the first sonogram – blah, blah, I won't bore you with those details. What matters is that, nine months later, I was the proud elder sister (well, more like an aunt, given our age difference) of one loud grenade called Adelaide Solomon. Adelaide _Morgan_ Solomon – a middle name Joe and Mom had decided to give in honor of Matthew.

Four years it had been since then, and it was hard to imagine that either of them had been worried about anything other than handling her on a sugar rush.

"I have my ways of convincing Rachel," Joe responded to my earlier question. "But I promised her I wouldn't go on active duty, so she's not too worried."

"And how's Addy?" I asked.

"Refusing to go to kindergarten, even though it's ages away," Joe shook his head. "She _is_ excited about next weekend though. You'll be there, right?"

His green eyes turned hopeful. Next weekend – Joe's birthday party. Once a year, depending on who was free, we celebrated at least one person's birthday as an entire family. Addy's first birthday had been an occasion. Then Zach's. Last year, it had been Aunt Abby's. This year, it was Joe's turn. We'd all planned it in advance, since none of us had been given any work for the weekend. But all these new developments with the Drozdovs and _Blut_ had me wondering if something bad was going to crop up soon – especially since Macey was laying low.

"You know we'll be there if Townsend doesn't ship us off," Zach said, slapping Joe on the back. The older man nodded, then tilted his head in the direction of the parking lot.

"I've got to head back soon. I promised I'd be back home by breakfast tomorrow morning. I should hit the road," he said, waving goodbye and breaking into a slight jog. Despite the brief surprise visit, I already felt a little lighter, a lot like a weight had been lifted off.

"What do you want to do?" Zach asked, turning to me.

"Race you to the gym?" I smirked, breaking into a run of my own.

* * *

Sparring felt a lot nicer than most people would think it would. The training room here was nothing like the P&E barns, to begin with. The cool, mattress lined floors and state of the art equipment – and a _thermostat –_ made things a lot easier. The wide open space with an Olympic sized pool, an array of weights and gym machines, as well as an arsenal of weapons, was a lot better. The promise of a shower without having to walk across a school yard and back to an old, crowded mansion was another good thing. I'm not complaining. I really did miss the ease of those P&E classes sometimes. But this was Disney World (Orlando, not L.A) in comparison to Gallagher's Mickey Mouse House.

I grunted as Zach tackled me to the floor, and I used the opportunity to hook my leg around his shoulders and turn us over. Wrapping my legs around his neck, I squeezed tight. If this had been the field, I would've squeezed tighter until my opponent passed out – or, if they were too dangerous, until I'd snapped their neck. Unfortunately, this was Zach. And while I had flexibility, he had muscle. Reaching behind to clutch at my shirt, he lifted us off and slammed us back into the ground. My grip immediately loosened enough for him to crawl out from the thigh-vice.

I already had my hands up in defense before I was even aware that he was charging at me. This was a little dance routine we often did, using our strengths to their fullest – Zach, quick to offend; me, quick to defend. He feinted towards the right, and I blocked the kick he threw towards the left, grabbing his ankle in a deadly grip. He flipped backwards, the locked foot twisting my grip painfully, and I stumbled onto him. He flipped us over, and I pressed the heels of my palms into his collarbones, elbows snapping straight to hold his weight off of me. In a flash, his right hand swiped to something at his ankle, and I removed my palms from his chest to grab his forearms just as they raced towards me.

The hidden blade stopped a hairsbreadth from my neck. I choked from the effort to push it back little by little, as both of us put our full strength into our upper body and arms. My eyes flickered away from the shiny blade to Zach's face. Although it was screwed up, jaw clenched as he strained against my grip, I saw his dark eyes glint with an emotion: pride. He was ridiculously happy (I could tell) that I'd had the forethought to expect everyone to play dirty, even him.

"I think," he gasped, pushing the blade closer to me. "That we can call this a draw."

"We can't call a draw on a tie breaking match!" I gasped in return.

"Cam, I love you, but I think we're both too egotistical to let the other one win. This would go on forever. And where would that leave us?" he teased, slackening his grip on the dagger. I disarmed him and tossed it aside. Sitting up, he tugged on my arms to pull me up, as well. We took a few moments to stretch our backs and limbs, testing to see if either of us had inflicted any severe damage on the other. His neck was a little stiff, and my shoulder throbbed, but it was still not the worst we'd dealt.

Needless to say, we didn't go easy on each other. That was one of the beautiful things about training with Zach. We were on the field together so often that we knew each other's exact problem areas. God knows how many hours he spent helping me improve my offense (I had trouble dealing with the aftermath of readily hurting someone, without instigation), while I had to help him with his defense (he had trouble sitting idly, waiting for someone to attack). That's just the way we were. Each other's biggest fans, and harshest critics, all rolled into one.

Stretching his back for the last time, he walked towards the long rows of cabinets on the west wall and pulled out some tape. I held my hands out while he bandaged them sturdily, and when both of us were satisfied with his work, we walked towards the punching bags. I barely waited for him to stand behind it and steady it before I landed the first punch.

 _Thwack!_

The sound echoed a little, the slight clench of Zach's jaw being the only indication of how hard I'd landed the hit. It was a punch that was waiting to happen, one I hadn't unleashed even when we were fighting each other. Mainly because if I _had_ thrown it, he'd have driven me in circles until I finally confessed what was bothering me. I wasn't in a confessing mood. Taking a deep breath, I simply moved into a second hit.

With every punch, my moves got aggressive, my entire torso throwing itself forward with frustration. The silence was pressing down on my skull, my mind very aware of Zach's silent scrutiny. He wanted me to say the first words. But I didn't want to give him that. So, I hit harder. And harder. I could feel my knuckles going raw under the tape, but I didn't care. There was nobody here to make me. There were no disguises - the one thing I'd trusted, as my partner, in my entire life - to betray me. My eyes flickered up to Zach's and he was giving me a knowing look. I gritted my teeth, and punched again. A cry of frustration left my mouth before I could stop it. He opened his mouth to say something, but I interrupted.

"I really hope we can make it to Joe's birthday," I huffed, after the fifteenth punch I'd thrown. Zach stopped what he was about to say, watching me closely while he held the swinging bag in place.

"Yeah, well, you know how Townsend can get. If he gets any new information, he has to be on it right away," Zach grumbled. I sensed that he secretly agreed with this approach. Technically, so did I. But this was Joe's birthday. Selfishly, I wished that we could stay back for it.

"Abby might not let him send us," I pointed out, hopefully, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "That, and it would be stupid to send us back in right after we got made. Even I know that."

"Unfortunately for your theory," he smirked, "this entire web is so far spun out that we can easily find another point of access."

"I just want to meet everyone," I said, wiping away a bead of sweat that had run down my temple. "Especially, Addy. Did you see the new pictures Mom sent? She's growing up too fast. She's already four! Wasn't she born, like, yesterday?"

Zach laughed at that, shaking his head. I didn't know what he was so smug about. He could pretend all he wanted but he adored the little girl just as much as I did. I remembered the first time we babysat her for Mom and Joe. Addy had only been ten months old, and he'd nearly run us all crazy with his frantically thorough attempts at making sure she didn't die on our watch. If it hadn't been frustrating, it could've been endearing. That, and the fact that she _adored_ Zach. Sure, she loved me a lot, but that kid had a one track mind only one time – when Zach was around. I suspected she was a little obsessed with him since he snuck her cookies and took her out for long drives.

Strangely enough, I remembered that night after Zach had found out Townsend was his father – how he'd vowed to never become a parent. I'd rarely thought of that comment over the years, even though I'd initially fretted over what it meant for us. It was weird how I'd wondered so obsessively over it when I was eighteen, but after moving in with him, I rarely thought about it. Our lives were too chaotic for me to linger on the possibilities of that.

But ever since Addy had been born, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it more and more. I was still too young to have a crisis over it – twenty-six was too young to have a crisis over it, right? It wasn't something I had to truly worry about for, at least, another five to six years.

Suddenly, we seemed so grown up. Liz and Jonas were fighting because they had to choose between their relationship or their careers. Grant and Bex were _engaged._ Where were Zach and I? It's not like I desperately needed him to drop down to one knee and proclaim his need to make a million babies with me. No, thank you. I loved my career too much for that. However, the idea of us taking the next big commitment was something I gingerly toyed with, from time to time. And, _sometimes, very rarely,_ I entertained ideas of a picket fence dream with pillow fights between Zach, me, and a blond haired, dark eyed kid.

"Hey," Zach snapped his fingers in front of my face. Apparently, my reverie had pulled me into a state of slowed down punches. "Earth to Cammie."

"I'm just exhausted," I lied. He frowned a little, immediately picking up on the shift in voice. Hesitating, he seemed unsure whether he should ask me what was wrong or not. When I gave up on punching and starting removing the tape, he decided to step in.

"Something on your mind? Something we haven't already sweat out over?" he asked, dropping down on one of the sparring mats. I dropped down next to him, stretching out my legs and rolling my ankles so they wouldn't become sore later on. He lay down and gestured towards his own feet. Thankful that I wouldn't have to look into his face, I crawled over to his ankles and sat on the joints. While I unlaced my shoes, I felt his movements as he did sit ups.

"Should I be worried?" he asked between deep breaths.

I should tell him. But it seemed like such a silly idea, so out of place in the middle of all this chaos. The last thing either of us needed to think about was where our relationship was going. We were fine where we were, for now. Scrubbing my face harshly before I would fret over these silly ideas, I turned to him and sent him a small grin.

"Only about being caught off guard," I warned, for a second, before hopping off his feet and throwing my weight on top of him. He grunted with surprise, his hands thrown back to support his body weight while I sat on top of him, knees tucked on either side of his torso. Laughing, his expression lightened up and he lay back down. His hands rested on my waist.

"You got me. Even if I can see what you're trying to do," Zach grinned back, pulling me forward until I lay on his chest. My lips found his quickly enough, a slight salty taste between us from all the sweating – I couldn't tell if it was him or me. While one hand remained on my waist, his other hand went up to my braid that was coming loose, twirling strands of hair that had fallen out.

"And what am I trying to do?" I breathed against his lips.

"You're trying to distract me so I don't get you to tell me what's been bothering you since we got on the plane," he said in a matter of fact way before laying back down and raising an eyebrow at me. I frowned.

"Way to kill the mood," I grumbled, hovering over him. "I'm trying to initiate some fun."

"You're trying to find an easy stress reliever," he corrected. "I'm not exactly complaining. But I want to know what I'm being used - blatantly, I might add - to relieve."

"It's nothing," I said, leaning forward to kiss him again. He let me, before rolling me onto my back. His mouth moved to my jaw, then to my chin, and then that soft spot where my pulse throbbed. I hummed with desire while his mouth moved back up to my ear, and then pressed a firm kiss to my temple.

"I don't believe you."

"Zach - " I started to whine, but he cut me off with a look.

"It's not your fault. I know you're blaming yourself, but it's not your fault."

He could've been addressing any number of things, even the ones he didn't know were on my mind.

 _It's not your fault we got made._

 _It's not your fault to want to hang out with the family._

 _It's not your fault to want a future for us._

 _It's not your fault for wondering._

"You don't know that," I finally mumbled. "And I don't want to talk about it. So, just shut up, and kiss me."

I didn't give him a moment to respond before I reached up and kissed him hard. He responded, automatically, and I used the opportunity to deepen the kiss. My legs bent and wrapped around him, tugging him close. My fingers scrambled for purchase across the sweaty fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back for air, I gave him barely a moment before I kissed him again. I heard him groan my name.

"You," he mumbled, pulling away to breath, "are far too attractive for someone who has been sweating and sparring."

"Oh, really?" I chuckled, playfully biting his lower lip, and enjoying the second groan that followed. "I'm going to remind you that the next time you insist I shower before coming to bed."

"Don't be gross," he wrinkled his nose. "The gym is for sweating. Beds are for a different kind of sweating, I'll admit. But it gets so gross, and stuffy, and it feels unhygienic – "

"Hush, you," I quieted him with another kiss. I could feel his smile, and my heart and stupid thoughts dialed down. This was good. This felt ridiculously good. I'd let a weird, implausible idea squirm its way into my brain and momentarily rattle it. Sparring and kissing on gym mats was what Zach and I were made for. Not picking curtains to match the couch, or packing school lunches. This was our world. This was our place – fighting side by side.

Pushing down the slight longing making its way into my chest, I let my body warm up comfortably. It was already in a state of hyper awareness, and his mouth trailing down my chin wasn't helping. Despite warning bells in my head that this was a public space, I was all too aware that we were alone this afternoon, and that my fingers were finding the sweat dampened ridges of his shirt too enticing. I slipped my hand under the t-shirt he wore, and he made a noise of protest under his breath.

"Not here," he whispered, sitting up without fully breaking the embrace. "If this is how you want to play it, then we're going to do it right. Let's find someplace else. What new corner of this HQ can we christen?"

* * *

The new corner turned out to be some ignored utility closet on the fourth floor. We'd initially made a beeline for the locker rooms, but we'd fooled around there more times than I could remember. We'd even hit all the utility closets on our floor – and the medical center when it had been empty – at least once in the past eight years, since joining the CIA. It was time to explore new floors. When I pointed out the unfamiliar closet on the next floor, he promptly shut the door behind us and sent us scrambling over an old box, and into a back shelf.

"Ow," I had mumbled, although I hadn't been complaining when his fingers had grazed under my shirt to frantically undo the sports bra. Still, the exclamation hadn't gone unnoticed, and he'd pivoted us until my back was pressed against the wall. While his fingers had undone my shorts, mine had attacked the elastic of his sweat pants. Closet quickies didn't exactly leave time for slow foreplay or build up.

"What turns you on about this entire situation?" he'd nibbled across my jaw, less than careful about bordering between pain and pleasure. "The race against getting caught, or the sneakiness of the entire situation?"

"Don't be a tease," I'd whined, hoisting myself up at the same time that his hands grabbed my waist and slammed us against the wall again, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist.

"Or," he continued, pushing up my shirt a little, his mouth moving down to the collar bone peeking through the loose neck hole. "Do you just like fooling around in dark corridors?"

"Zach!" I'd snapped, digging my nails into his chest. "Stop talking. Now."

"Oh right, you don't want to talk," he growled in my ear, and I could hear that the deep roughness in his voice was mirroring the desire and frustration that was coursing through me. I needed him as stress relief - and he wanted my stress to _be_ relieved. Even if it was momentary. I clawed at him while his fingers dug deep into my hips, his moving against mine. I was sure I'd made a noise between a whimper and a moan.

"Zach - " I'd said, unsure if I was moaning, or pleading, or scolding.

"Tell me what you want. Or, better yet, show me what you want."

He'd given me a mischievous smirk. I wasn't too bummed out.

Twenty minutes later, we were gasping for air while drowning in each other. I wasn't exactly sure how we managed the mechanics of it, but we did, and that's all that mattered, when my head stopped spinning and the pleasure stopped messing with my head. I swear to God, there were stars in my vision, and my back (which was already sore from sparring) was going to be a bother tomorrow morning. I could not care less. My throat felt dry, probably from having my mouth open and panting for quite some time, but that wasn't something a little water couldn't fix.

"Oh, god," I groaned, for what felt like the millionth time, squeezing my eyes shut and resting my head back against the wall. Zach echoed the sentiment, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his hot breaths sharp against my skin. He let his weight trap me for a few moments, arms tightening around me, as much as they could after being spent. But he managed well enough, even holding me upright while my wobbly legs unwound from around him.

"Now we need to shower again," I chuckled, righting my clothes and kissing the corner of his mouth.

"God, Gallagher Girl," he said, a mocking look of horror on his face. "How badly do you want me? At least give me ten minutes to recuperate before we go at it in the showers."

I whacked his arm, hunting for where he'd kicked aside my shorts. Finding them precariously close to a dust bunny, I quickly grabbed them and shook them out before putting them on. Pressing my ear against the door, making sure that the coast was clear, I unlatched the door and slipped out. A few minutes later, he slipped out, too. In the industrial light of the hallway, our skins looked sweaty and very flushed – I was glad we'd come straight from the gym, or it would look far too suspicious. Sharing a look of conspiracy, we grinned and started walking back towards where our locker rooms were.

"That's another room you can check mark," he said, nudging my side playfully. We were lazily ambling, too tired from all the different kinds of workouts we'd practiced over the past few hours. I pretended to stumble, and shoved him back.

We were still playfully shoving each other back and forth when we turned into the next hallway and froze. The sign above the Research and Development wing glowed bright. Below it stood Liz, her face pale, and her eyes red and splotchy.

"Oh, Cammie. I was hoping I'd find you here."

She threw herself at me, sobbing into my shoulder. I was stunned, but muscle memory had me wrapping my arms tightly around her. Liz's body caved into mine as if she'd been lugging something heavy – no easy task for her – and I had little difficulty in dragging her to a small bench in the corridor. She hiccuped as she sat down, and I put an arm around her. Confused eyes found Zach's, and he looked as worried and bewildered as I felt.

"Liz, what happened?" I asked, rubbing her back. "What are you doing here?"

"We – we – broke up," she said, her voice sounding like a moan of despair.

All the dizzy, momentary euphoria from before evaporated into thin air. I sighed deeply. A part of me had expected as much, and another part of me was relieved that Liz wasn't in any danger, or harmed in any way. But the larger part of me was, both, wounded and angry on behalf of my best friend. And, still, so confused.

"He – he refused to compromise. He said – he said I had to choose. America, or him," Liz sniffled. Her wide, bloodshot eyes turned to me, innocence and confusion shining in them. "Why would he say that, Cammie? Why would he ask me something so difficult?"

I shrugged, a little helplessly, and we both turned to Zach. He seemed to have expected this because he winced and sat down on Liz's other side, hesitating before answering. I hoped my eyes warned him enough to soften the blow. But as gifted a liar as he was, he was also far too honest.

"Jonas has a tendency to say rash things when he's hurt and angry," he said, shaking his head. "And, I'm sure you know, he can be extremely stubborn even when he's wrong."

Liz sniffled louder, as if she didn't want to be reminded of how well she knew Jonas. My heart broke at the sight of her looking so sad. Elizabeth Sutton was not one made for heartbreak. I wanted to tell her something helpful, something to distract her, like she and the girls had done for me when Josh and I had broken up. But that was so long ago, the heartbreak of a fifteen-year-old. It seemed to pale in comparison. I wanted to invite her to stay with us, but we weren't in New York – we would be staying in HQ guest housing ourselves, until nothing immediate came up.

"Where are you staying, Liz? Do you want to come stay with us?" I offered anyway.

Liz shook her head, wiping her nose on a tissue she'd had crumpled in her fist.

"I – I have a room here. They assigned me one until I can find a place for myself."

"So, you're back for good?" Zach asked, face cringing with hesitance.

"It seems like it," Liz said, and her face crumpled again. I pulled her head to my chest. Ignoring the way she was wetting my shirt, I helped her stand up - and she didn't seem to care that I was sweaty.

"Come on," I whispered. "Let's get you to your room, get some hot chocolate, and we can talk about this, okay? For as long as you want."

Liz perked up, just a bit, at the mention of hot chocolate. Guiding us towards the HQ housing, Zach and I actively avoided mentioning Jonas, or Moscow. We only asked her questions about her transfer, so soon after she'd visited us in New York. Apparently, the CIA was more than happy to transfer her back to their Research and Development Department. Although the transfer was still being processed down to its last details, the main paperwork had been run through the right clearance channels. She could start working as soon as she could, and knowing how she loved to distract herself with work, she'd probably start tomorrow.

"And there's another new R&D recruit, so I won't be entirely the new one," she said, in a hoarse voice, as she looped closer to her room. It was in a separate section from ours, active agents being kept in separate quarters than home base ones.

"I'm sure you'll get your bearings in no time," Zach said in a reassuring voice.

"Of course, I will," Liz sniffed. "I'm Elizabeth Sutton."

"Have you met the new recruit?" I asked. "Maybe you guys can bond over being the new ones here?"

"I guess," she said, a little uncertain. Being social hadn't always been her strongest point. "I don't know much about him. Only that he was top of his class in chemical engineering. Got a full scholarship to do his PhD from MIT. Clearly, an asset to the R&D track."

"Sounds about as nerdy as you," Zach said, and I grinned hopefully. Liz managed to crack a small smile. We had just stopped in front of her door when the door behind us opened. I was still fiddling with the key that Liz had handed me, so when she turned to greet the person, I only caught the name.

"Oh, speak of the devil. We were just talking about you, Agent Sommers."

"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie," I heard the familiar, taunting tone. "What have I told you about talking to me so formally?"

The keys slipped from my hand. I looked up in horror. Zach's expression had turned to stone, and we both slowly turned in our spots.

The man in front of us was someone neither of us had seen in six years. He looked leaner, but fitter. He'd acquired glasses at some point, but it matched the slight stubble he was sporting. His hair was a little messy, and the CIA issue jumper he was wearing had a dorky _HELLO! MY NAME IS_ sticker on it, with his name stamped in a sloppy handwriting.

The man's eyes widened with surprise, flitting quickly from myself to Zach, and then back to me again. He shook off some of the shock, mustering an uneasy and curious smile.

"Lauren?"

"Lauren?" Liz repeated, a confused look on her face. Then her expression cleared, eyes widening as she remembered that this man's stellar grades in chemical engineering had been won at Georgetown University. I managed a feeble smile.

"Hi, Craig."


End file.
